LIVE OAK, Fla. — Friday morning, a lingering fog lifted off the Suwannee River like a thick curtain, revealing an ageless splendor, starting the final act of my unforgettable eco-adventure.

My journey 21 miles down Florida’s majestic Suwannee River started with a night under the stars Thursday, before a departure on my own human-powered craft Friday, and resulting in a trip through gentle currents, whirling eddies, flush green canopies, hydro-carved yellow, white and green limestone geometrical murals and weathered, flowing Spanish moss.

The muse of so many songs, photos and paintings portraying a more simple and peaceful time played host to more than 160 paddlers, adventure seekers, all-around outdoor enthusiasts and a few out-of-place journalists starting last Thursday and stretching on to this upcoming Thursday.

The large gathering was constructed by paddler Bill Richards and dubbed “Paddle Florida,” bringing people together to enjoy the wondrous aquatic playground. It was a gathering that brought together people ranging in age from their teens to their retirement, from as close as Gainesville, Fla., and as far away as Colorado Springs, Colo.

Paddle Florida started Thursday with the party of people gathering at Suwannee Music Park in Live Oak, Fla., dropping off more than 100 kayaks of dozens of shapes, sizes and colors on the river bank, and then setting up slightly less wondrous and appealing tents.

Heading into my first-ever night’s sleep without a shingled roof top above my head, the campground was an odd sight. Located against the white fences of a horse stable, with campers petting the manes of two horses, the camping area packed with nearly 100 nylon igloos looked like a holiday for the green-thumbed, and, at the same time, a scene from a movie involving battle-headed soldiers or battle-worn refugees.

It, of course, proved to be the former.

Night on the Suwannee

After the tent-building guidance of Navy Reserve member, VDT photographer and life-long South Georgian raised around the outdoors Pat Gallagher, my tent went up in no time. Which is still a surprise, because Harvey Campbell, the Executive Director of the Columbia County Board of County Commissioners, set me up with a tent the size of a small home. Designed for four people, the blue-colored tent gave me plenty of room to stretch and move around, which would be needed during the frigid night ahead of me.

But first, it was time to unwind, mingle and explore.

With a full week together ahead of the Paddle Florida group, everyone was quick to say hello and spark up a friendly conversation that I say would even rise above the famed Southern hospitality. I met a nearby tent neighbor who appeared around the same age and came to the Suwannee after being e-mailed the event’s Web site by a fellow paddler.

Having spent most of his paddling days in the Everglades and Biscayne Bay in South Florida, he was eager to take to the Suwannee River. Like several other river voyagers, he was in a professional place to make his own schedule and could make the week-long trip. Many of the travelers had a job where a week’s vacation was feasible, or they could make their own schedules. The rest were retirees who traveled to such vacation spots, and others were from nearby areas. But all had the similar interest of being in the outdoors, as several had also competed in cycle road races.

I, however, had just competed in one 8K and was along for the ride.

That ride included staying in place, first by a fire under a full moon over my right shoulder and Orion pointing his arrow over my left shoulder. If I were wise and had flame-retardant pants, I would have slipped a spark into my pocket because the night got cold. Before I tried to sleep through the chills and the snores reaching past the not-so-sound-proof walls of my tent, I enjoyed the time spent around the fire.

Paddlers continued to get to know each other, telling tales of their previous adventures, discussing the sites of a nearby bat house, and even regaling a poem made on a restless night.

Everyone was as quick to reach out with a story as they wish they were with a stick dotted with a flaming marshmallow.

A mere eight hours after I left the blazing fire at 10 p.m., Pat, fresh off his sleep at a nearby motel, told me the evening, or early morning — depending on how you looked at it — got down to 38 degrees. I figured as much, as I couldn’t leave the confines of my sleeping bag, blanket, jeans, undershirt, T-shirt and sweatshirt.

However, I made it past the first obstacle of the trip, camping in the outdoors.



Finding my sea legs



After a breakfast at the camp’s nearby restaurant, Pat, decked out in neoprene from head to toe and armed with the knowledge of spending as much time in a literal watering hole as I have in the other type of watering hole, and I boarded a van to head to the river.

It was a sight that inspires people of far greater talent to head toward the canvas. The sun was still working its way out of the horizon and over the trees, and a thick fog coated the river bank. Its grasp hid the trees and just revealed the gliding river and its sand and root-covered beaches. Stretching past the beach and through the fog’s blinders were rows of kayaks in bright yellow, green, blue and orange.

After watching the wide-eyed paddlers walk their vessels to the river, strap in a small package of supplies and push off from the edge of the river, I was eager to get going.

I have never had to paddle a boat before; the closest I’d come to that was in an inflatable pool float in my chlorine-mixed swimming pool, with a friendly mosaic-tiled sea turtle just 5 feet below.

However, now it was time to paddle, or fall in the 60-something degree water.

I left from a boat ramp next to a nearby rental shop with Pat, two first-time paddlers from Birmingham, Ala., a father and his two sons and a writer and first-timer from the Lake City Reporter. At first float, I thought for sure I would be clutching my life vest and doggy-paddling in a matter of minutes.

I managed to maneuver into the river’s stream and found it a steady force to help me cut through the 21 miles ahead of me.

The river pushed at around three knots, and at times, Pat’s hand-held GPS had us moving at three miles per hour without the aid of our double-sided paddles.

But first it was those same paddles I had to merge with my senses.

After a few wrong turns and not-so-graceful splashes of the water, the push with one arm, and pull with the opposite motion had me moving along.

I felt like I had just learned to walk, but it was a new vantage point that I was eager to explore. Moving along the river at a gentle pace without the distracting noise of an engine or the elevated height of a ship, I was able to take in the river.



Way down upon the Suwannee River



Its banks were decked in oak trees and mangroves. Tree roots stretched into the water ways, cliffs of limestone stemming from aquifers rose out of the water.

Cardinals, hawks, vultures and dozens of other birds perched themselves in the nearby trees.

Loose branches from the recent wind and rain storms floated nearby as eyeless witnesses and river speed bumps.

The journey to the lunch stop was one of gaining advice from the nearby boaters, who were eager to paddle by and strike up a conversation on their stroll.

I learned how to maneuver and turn, but, more importantly, how to gaze onto the wooded shore.

Birds fluttered away as we passed by, fish rose out of the water to pursue a bug, and turtles sunned on nearby logs.

After seven miles, we pulled over, grabbed some water and snacks prepared by park rangers and Holton Creek River Camp, stretched our legs and got back on board.

The next part of the trip was spent paddling and putting my shoulder, arm and back muscles to the test. The river winded left and right, changing the flow of the current and the strength of the paddle.

Pat snapped away at the various photography opportunities, and we munched on trail mix and Slim Jims while chatting about the daily grind of life in the newspaper business.

The journey was relaxing and awe-inspiring as we immersed ourselves in nature.

As we rounded the bend heading near Suwannee River State Park, a white banner flapped in the breeze, signaling it was time to pull the boats on the shore.

My multi-colored, sit-on-top kayak brought me the 21 miles west-southwest, the first leg of a seven-leg, 123-mile journey, and didn’t once threaten to dunk me in the river which starts at the Okefenokee Swamp and spans to the Gulf of Mexico.

I departed on dry land, glanced over the park’s cliff and took a last look at the trees reaching over the river, as I left the other 160 people setting up the small tent city for another restful night, before yet another serene paddle.